


Visions

by pixie_rings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), i just came back from infinity war ok i'm not well, not really - Freeform, playin' fast and loose with the magic speedy twins two point oh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14682695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: She does not know where she is, how she got there, but she is not alone.





	Visions

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHAHAHA THAT WAS NOT A HAPPY HAPPY FUN TIME AT ALL.
> 
> GUESS WHO JUST GOT BACK FROM INFINITY WAR AND IS VERY NOT OK AND DIDN’T HAVE A GOOD TIME? HAHAHA YEAH THAT WOULD BE ME. There was so much Wanda/Vision in this movie I couldn’t resist. I had to. I have to fix things. Angst? Sad things? I have no idea.

Wanda does not expect to reform, so when the atoms that compose her cells are suddenly one again, the building blocks of her existence once more forming her mind, her body, her soul, it is like being plunged into Arctic water.

She drags air into her lungs as they inflate again, and it tastes both stale and sweet as nectar. Her synapses crackle, refinding their routes, her muscles tremble uncontrollably. Her eyes take a moment to know how to see again, light and shadow and colour and movement indistinguishable until they unblur. Her head spins, oxygen flooding her brain again. Her entire system is in shock, going haywire as it rediscovers the autopilot it has always run on.

As she stumbles forward on new-born fawn-legs, she notices her surroundings. Black… no, not black. Just dark, but there are colours there, purples and pinks and blues and a few she doesn’t have names for, studded with stars. She whirls, mind a tornado, but it is all the same. She looks down, and she is reflected on a nebula-strewn floor which ripples with her every step. She looks up again, and tilts her head. Before her, there is a boy.

He floats, cross-legged, reflected in the floor as well, no older than seventeen at the most. He wears a red hoodie, too big for him, its sleeves rolled up to reveal bracelets and wristbands similar to her own, his nails painted black as his fingers move in the same erratic way hers do, only bright blue. On his legs, dark skinny jeans, torn at the knees, and on his torso a black t-shirt. As she steps closer, she notices, both bright silver against the dark of his shirt, a Magen David and a pentacle, on the same leather cord. Closer still, and she can see his face.

Her heart stops. She doesn’t know whether it’s the tear ducts relearning their function or something else, but tears roll down her cheeks of their own accord. His hair is black, and his face… oh, his _face_. There is something of her, and something of Pietro, and something of… _of_ … She lets out a sob. Oh, there is _so much_ of Vision in the boy’s face, it leaves her breathless.

He opens his eyes and they widen.

“Mom!” he exclaims, his feet meeting the floor. She stares, wondering if her ears work properly yet. He rushes to her, black sneakers making no noise, and he goes to touch her. She doesn’t fight it. She touches his face, staring at it, cards a hand through his hair, full of yearning in a way she never knew existed.

“How…?” she breathes. His smile is tentative, higher on the left than the right, all Pietro, but the tenderness in his eyes, that is all Vision. The tears spill forth again. Who is this boy who breaks her heart with every second she looks at him?

“That’s not important,” he says. “I don’t have much time.”

“Time for what?” That’s all there seems to be in this place, time. How can he not have enough? She wants him to stay, stay forever, with her. Letting him go feels like it would like ripping out half of her own heart.

“To give you a message,” he says. “For you and Dad.”

_Dad._ “Vision?” she murmurs. He nods, and her heart stills again, missing infinite beats as she remembers. She tried, oh, Vision, she _tried_. But then there is this boy in front of her, this _impossible_ boy, so how can she have failed? She has so many questions and she knows she cannot have any answers, though she does not know whether it is because they are beyond her, or forbidden to her.

“Everything will be fine,” he says, insistent, hands tightening on her arms in reassurance. “We’re gonna fix it. Everything will be fine. Me and Tommy… we’re gonna make it ok again.”

She shakes her head, slowly, heavy with incredulity. “How? How can this be fixed?”

He takes a deep breath. “We _will_ fix it,” he repeats, his voice heavy with a teenager’s certainty. “We’re gonna do it, Mom.”

A voice echoes all around them, thick with worry: _Billy, get out of there!_

He looks up, back to her. “I promise, Mom,” he says. He pulls her against him, into his skinny arms, tight for the briefest moment, before stepping back, away from her, before she realises she needs to return the embrace with a fervour she has never felt before. She snatches for him, desperate not to let him go, but he shakes his head, tears welling in his own brown eyes.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Will I ever see you again?” she begs, her arms feeling frozen with emptiness.

“Maybe,” he says, with a sad smile, and then he is fading, and she is being unmade again, piece by piece, dust on the wind, too quick to be painful, too real to be painless.

_Of course_ , she thinks with her last conscious thoughts before oblivion returns to claim her. She’d always liked those names, Uiliam and Toma.


End file.
